Chevylier

I am not officially restarting my blog. But my work is slowing down at last, so here is a little story I wrote. I may be writing full-time again soon.

Chevylier

Sir Track of Houston rumbled across the open plains of the Kingdom of Texas. His armored silver truck ripping over low bushes and hills, the suspension absorbing every jolt.

Track glanced at the passenger seat where his squire leaned on the dashboard, eyes closed. He turned back to the faint road, little more than a shallow trail. There was still plenty of biodiesel in the tank and it was five hours ride to Grease-pit village. Above the noonday sun glared down on canyons rising like scissors to pinch the silver truck. Sir Track narrowed his eyes and turned to punch his squire in the shoulder. The youth recoiled and instinctively reached for his combat knife. Sir Track grabbed his arm. “Steady Rigs.”

The knight pointed through the dirty windshield at the narrow pass that led through the canyon, the only pass to Grease-pit village within two hundred miles. “I need you awake here Rigs. Perfect place for an ambush. A squad of knaves with fire bombs could give us serious hurt from atop yon rocks. Look alive.”

Two thousand yards away in a cave tucked into the canyon wall a man named Barker stared at the silver truck through rusty binoculars. His practiced eye evaluated the target. This truck was no merchant or freewheeling mechanic. From its spiked bumper to the iron cattle pusher soldered to its grill it was a war rig. Barker did not recognize the pic of arms painted on the side. Doubtless this was some knight of Clothholm or Stockbarn. Or perhaps it was a marauder like himself. But no…this truck was well maintained. Certainly a knight on the road.

Normally a marauder would let the knight pass and wait for a weaker target. But Barker hated knights. He still carried the scars of a beating from a knight who caught him stealing food, years ago. The Barker stroked his beard and stowed the binoculars in the web gear that crisscrossed his ceramic body armor. He turned into the cave where his battle van sat parked, painted and stained black as midnight. Barker opened the driver’s door and kicked the teenager sleeping by his feet. “Razor, wake up.” He ground out at the grimy lad scrambling out of reach. “Wake up and pile in. We’re gonna bust up some wheels.”

Barker pulled the keys from the chain around his neck and jammed them into the ignition. No good driver went anywhere without his keys. Razor crawled into the turret welded onto the top of the van and loaded the heavy machine gun, snapping back the cocking handle with glee. He lived for hunting.

Sir Track flinched as a black van roared out of a cave seven hundred yards away. The knight yanked on the wheel and brought his vehicle to face the stranger. No pic of arms on the van, just a crudely spray-painted red sign. “Black Night.” Sir Track stuffed his head into his old riot police helmet. Rigs sat up straight next to him and loaded the knights assault rifle. “Sir, can we outrun them in the canyon?” Track turned to his squire. “Outrun them? Should we be afraid of some bandits in a battered rig?” Rigs turned red. “No Sire, I mean…” Track held up a gloved hand. “I know that you are brave, little Rigs. But we don’t know if this knave has planned a trap further into the pass. Here we will wait for him to make his play.”

Barker skidded the van to a stop and cursed at the fuel tank meter. He would have to siphon some biodiesel from this truck after he killed the knight. Above Razor bounced up and down with excitement. Barker accelerated. “O.K. Razor, let it rip.”

Razor opened up, the machine gun’s thumping beat shaking the whole van. Track saw the tracer rounds arcing towards him. Instinctively he yelled “Slits” and hauled on the chain hanging in the cab. A great slab of steel swung overhead and slammed down over the front windows of the truck. The machine gun rounds came dancing along the dry dirt, throwing up clouds of dust and slammed into the steel, ramming great dents in it. Track hit the gas and the truck surged forwards in a storm of spraying rocks and gravel.

The van lurched towards its target as Razor’s machine gun pounded the truck. Less than fifty yards separated the speeding vehicles. Barker bent his eyebrows in concentration. The knight’s truck was more maneuverable. He would try to ram the van. Barker decided that he would drive straight until the last moment and veer around the truck to hit its weak back area. It would take careful timing.

Staring through slits in the steel slab, Sir Track studied the approaching van, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes. Rigs saw the look in his master’s eyes and braced himself for impact. Twenty yards between the two vehicles, now ten, now five and Barker made his play. The van twisted to the left. At the same moment Sir Track threw the truck on an intercept course.

Metal crunched and spun off in little pieces as the truck rammed the van right behind its right wheel. The cattle pusher crumpled its armored body like tin. The van skidded a dozen yards on two wheels and flipped on its side in an explosion of dirt. Razor was thrown clear of the gun turret and collapsed in a pile nearby.

The truck slowed down and turned about, dragging its cattle pusher. Rigs relaxed and released the breath he had been holding. Sir Track sat for a moment, then grabbed his assault rifle and opened the door. A wave of hot air flooded into the fan-cooled cabin. Track grabbed Rigs by the shoulder. “Stay in the truck, I will call you in a minute. Find that towing cable.” Rigs scowled and pulled his compact shotgun from a compartment. “I want to come. I am not a coward.” Sir Track’s voice got quiet. “But can you follow an order?” Rigs stopped short and the fire in his eyes faded. “Already have I lost two squires in combat, you will not be the third. By the code of chevilry I must not ride a rig against an unrigged enemy. Stay here.”

Barker felt his pounding forehead gingerly and coughed. Smoke seeped into his inverted cabin, something in the engine must have caught fire. He disentangled himself from his seatbelt and crawled through a window. Peeking around his hammered van he saw the truck parked close by. The knight had just stepped out of the cabin and was approaching. Barker reached inside the window and pulled out a compact submachine gun with one hand while brushing sparks out of his beard with the other.

Razor opened his eyes and groaned, his leg was broken. Rising from the dust on one arm he pulled out his pistol from a leg holster. He saw the knight advancing towards the van, ignoring him. Razor fired seven wild shots with one hand. Sir Track dropped to one knee as pistol bullets kicked up dust around him. Reflexes honed by years of training he brought up his rifle and shot Razor through the chest. The dusty squire collapsed and Track was already moving again, weapon trained on the van.

Barker saw the knight coming. The cunning marauder pulled a grenade from his web gear, armed it and flipped it over the van. Sir Track saw the object land, a second later he knew what it was. Track threw himself on the ground. A loud bang as the bomb threw a thousand invisible pieces of hot shrapnel over his head and a shockwave through his heart.

Rigs watched the fight through a gun slit, gripping his shotgun tight. He was torn between his desire to fight with his master and earn the trust of this noble knight by staying put.

Barker stepped from behind the van, gun leveled. As Sir Track rose shakily to his feet Barker shot him in the back plate armor with a burst of bullets. Track pitched forwards and went down. Barker advanced, firing a stream of rounds into the knight. Track writhed as the stinging copper bolts pounded him into the ground. The SMG’s magazine ran dry and Barker slapped another magazine in with practiced ease. Rigs watched the knave deliberately shoot Sir Track in the unarmored leg, that was the last straw. Track might not want to lose another squire, but Rigs was not going to lose a knight on his watch. He cocked his shotgun and twisted the door open.

Barker savagely kicked the knight and wiped his bloody nose. “Not so tough now, are yeh? This is what you get for ‘reckin my rig. I’m gonna tie you to my grill and watch you dry out.” He fired just next to his victim’s head. Sir Track rolled over and Barker was staring into the muzzle of a handgun. Track fired, missing Barker’s head by millimeters. Barker kicked the handgun away and stomped down on Track’s arm.

Rigs ran forwards and yelled. “Hey knave, have at thee.” Barker looked up, just in time to catch a handful of buckshot in the chest plates. The impact threw him into a complete backflip. Barker slammed into the ground, gasping, empty of air and fully surprised. Rigs ran up close and holstered his shotgun before whipping out his combat knife. Barker’s watery eyes cleared and he saw a young face above him, felt himself being flipped over. Leather gloves searched him, snatching away his backup pistol and machete. He was vaguely aware of a knife pressing into the soft skin of his throat and a voice echoing through his aching ears. “Yield villain or I will end you. Yield. I will not waste a bullet on thee.” And Barker was afraid. He strove to get some air in his lungs, to do anything but gasp and flail around. Rigs stared down on him with cold brown eyes. Finally, it came out. “I yield.” Barker said.

Rigs of Houston cruised across the plains of the Kingdom of Texas in a crumpled silver truck. He was towing a still-smoking black van. A marauder named Barker lay chained in his truck bed. Miles behind him in a shallow grave lay Razor, his final resting place marked by a twisted machine gun bent into a cross.

Rigs glanced at the passenger seat where Sir Track reclined, tossing in an uneasy sleep, wounded leg wrapped in bandages. The bleeding had stopped but only at Castle Houston could he get the treatment he needed. Rigs took a deep breath, turned up the fan and sat back. Five hours ride to Castle Houston. Might as well relax while he could.  

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